


rust and roses

by savingophelia (briennesbeauty)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, college au? sort of?, i mean carol’s in college daryl is just in the woods being daryl, love language is nearly killing ur crush several times by accident, motorbikes and dirty roads and rainstorms oh my, no zombies baby caryl au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 04:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23005417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briennesbeauty/pseuds/savingophelia
Summary: it's a sunny friday, when daryl almost shoots a girl with his crossbow.or, the one where daryl and carol are awkward not-quite-adults, dancing around fate, circumstance and several near-death experiences.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Carol Peletier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	rust and roses

**Author's Note:**

> so i rly don't know what i'm doing with this but i've had the idea of soft sad small-town baby carol and daryl for what feels like eons and i've finally done something with it. it is most likely trash but so am i so that's ok
> 
> due to the nature of life atm i can't say updates won't be a bit all over the place, but lmk if you'd be interested in more! 
> 
> i love these two sm i could honestly write phone-book-sized things about them

It’s a sunny Friday, the first time Daryl almost kills a girl.

Even in the woods it’s hot. Sweat sticks his shirt to the back of his neck. The grass is dry and crunchy under his boots. He can feel the sun beating down on him, despite the shadow of leaves and branches that jostle over his head.

He’s been tracking a deer all morning. Honestly, he just set out with his crossbow under his arm and his pack slung over his shoulder for something to do, and to get out of the sweltering heat of the trailer, not really expecting much. He already has a pretty good stockpile, and he’s sold enough to see him through the next few weeks. But then he’d been wandering round off the trails, one fat squirrel dangling from his bag, when he spotted the track – clear and clean cut in the dust, like a goddamn road map. He’d tracked the thing pretty easily for a while, enjoying the stillness and dry quiet of the woods

Now though, he’s drawing near to the edge of the forest, where the trees open up and the old empty horse fields stretch for miles and he’s pretty sure it’s skulking around somewhere close. 

He places his feet quietly, steady and careful, following the tracks towards the edge of the woods where the trees thin out. Between their thin trunks, he can see the grassy riverbank beyond, the clear waters rushing by quietly. 

And there, just across the bank, is a fat brown rabbit, hopping about the thistle patches, minding its own business, just waiting to get shot and hung up beside the squirrel. _Ain’t no deer_ , he thinks to himself, but he might as well. Daryl levels his crossbow, aiming just right through the skinny trees. He counts _one, two, three_ beats and – _perfect_ – looses. A slight smile crosses his lips, a tug of satisfaction in his chest – 

And then there is a scream. 

It is a short, sharp high pitched scream. Unmistakably, it is a human scream. 

“The hell?” Daryl’s heart jerks in his chest.

He jogs through the rest of the trees out to the riverbank, crossbow swinging loosely from his hand. He steps out onto the dry grass, squinting in the sudden hazy sunlight, and is immediately confronted by his would-be victim. 

There is a girl sitting on the grassy bank with a notebook in her lap, and she twists round sharply at the sound of him. Her eyes are big and bright and the same colour as the sky, and they are narrowed and glaring up at him.

“Did you...” She throws a glance at the crossbow bolt, lodged in the dirt not two metres from her. “Is that yours?”

“Uh,” Unsure what to do, Daryl nods briefly. 

The crossbow swinging heavily from his hand isn’t doing him any favours.

He swallows. His cheeks are blazing hot. He looks away from her, across the grass. The rabbit is long gone. Clearly, her screaming scared the damn thing off. _And the deer too, if it was nearby_ , he realises, like a punch to the gut. 

“You nearly shot me!” The girl exclaims. She’s braced on her hands in the dirt, her notebook and pencils forgotten in the grass. 

“The hell was I s’posed to know you was sittin’ there!” Daryl snaps, defensiveness sparking in him. He has to squint at her, harsh sun flashing off the stream. 

“Excuse me?” The girl replies, incredulous. Her thin eyebrows lift. “Are you seriously blaming me? You shot at me!” 

“Ain’t blamin’ no one.” Daryl mutters roughly. “’Should be more careful, ‘s all. Who takes a damn nap in the middle of the woods?” He stalks over to yank his crossbow bolt back from the crumbly dirt and wipes it carelessly on the tatty hem of his shirt “And ya scared off my dinner.”

The girl sits up taller and her sharp blue eyes follow him across the riverbank. “Your dinner,” She repeats, and her voice is clear and precise and makes the back of his neck crawl with heat. 

“Yeah,” Daryl says defensively. “The hell was you doin’ wanderin’ round the woods? Ya don’t exactly look like a hunter.” 

“I’m not,” The girl replies indignantly. She squints slightly in the sunlight as the breeze brushes a few strands of curly hair across her face. “Not that it’s any of your business. I’m studying – or was, at least. I’ve studied here plenty of times before and nobody’s shot at me yet.” 

“Since when?” Daryl scowls. He glances down at her properly for the first time, noticing the shiny textbooks lying in the grass beside her, the open notebook, its page half-filled with neat, sloping writing. “Ain’t never seen ya here before.”

“And you’re here, specifically, all the time?” The girl remarks, one thin eyebrow slightly raised.

“Yeah,” He shrugs defensively. 

Her eyes dart up briefly to the dead squirrel dangling from his bag, a look of clear distaste on her pale face. “For dinner?” 

“For dinner,” Daryl repeats. He’s annoyed now, annoyed at this dumb bitch, thinking she’s better than him because her daddy buys his meat cut-up in the supermarket.

“Okay,” The girl mutters, turning away from him and shoving herself back against the tree trunk. She picks up her notebook and pencil again with harsh, sharp movements and he just stands there while she firmly and resolutely ignores him. 

“You just gonna keep sittin’ there?” Daryl demands, pride flaring. _The hell does she think she is?_

“Why shouldn’t I?” The girl replies crisply, not looking up from her notebook. “We’ve established it’s nothing to do with you.”

“Damn right it’s not.” Daryl mutters. “Ain’t safe, is all. You’d think you’d notice that when ya nearly died –”

“So _now_ you nearly killed me,” The girl says. She doesn’t look up, taking her pencil and beginning to write something. 

“Whatever, lady,” Daryl mutters, slotting the crossbow bolt safely back into place. “Do what ya want. See if I care.”

He shakes his head at her and trudges off back towards the woods, heart racing, sweaty neck blazing, deer forgotten. 

_Stupid bitch_. 

-

The late summer drags on longer than anyone expected. 

It’s halfway through September now and it’s still sweltering.

Daryl wakes up every morning damp with sweat and has to put his cups of tap water in the cooler by the bed a while before he drinks them. The trailer doesn’t have air conditioning, which is just as inconvenient now as he’s sure the lack of heating will be in the months to come. 

His Da didn’t think of that when he invested in the piece of junk; a big ugly retro thing sitting low in one of the fields outside town. Then again, Da didn’t exactly stick around to live in it. Daryl remembers when he was a kid, and Merle would tell him how he was going to do it up, get an extension and a shower and a truck to hook up to. (Then Merle got back from juvie the first time and talk turned to an apartment nearer the city, where they could live, just the two of them. Then the talk stopped and Merle stopped being around to talk at all.) 

For now though, the trailer’s home, and it’s the only home Daryl can really remember. Da’s been gone for a long time and although Merle was in and out for a while, it looks like he’s followed suit, so he guesses it’s a place to call his own. Not many nineteen-year-olds could say that.  
It’s been maybe a week and a half since the incident by the river with the stupid girl and he’s pretty much forgotten about it, when he decides to head into town and stock up. 

Mostly Daryl gets by using local stores: most of his stuff comes from the multi-purpose hardware store down near the quarry, or the corner store at the end of the road and most of his kills go to the local butcher, but every now and then he takes a trip down the long forest road towards the city. Something else to do, he guesses. So he yanks on his boots and rattles the trailer door shut, pocketing his keys as he jogs over to the motorbike sitting waiting for him, chipped black paint shining in the sun.

The bike growls and sputters when he starts it up, but it’s never failed him before. His dad brought it home, when Daryl was tiny. It was a piece of crap then, just a hunk of metal and old parts he was gonna use for scrap. For years, it just sat behind the trailer, threatening to rust away.  
Until he was maybe fourteen, and it was the second or third time Da went away for months on end. Daryl spent the whole summer behind the trailer, taking it apart and putting it back together again. It was a sweltering, Southern summer – the grass dried up and went brown, but Daryl just kept working, covered in sweat and black oil, until he had something remotely useable. Since then it’s grown even more. He’s got some better parts, reworked pretty much the whole engine at one point or another. Now he can’t imagine being without it. 

The engine roars as he leaves the field behind and turns to cruise down the empty forest road, and Daryl can almost feel the purr of it in his chest. It’s the sound of peace and happiness, of long quiet days at the end of summer with no one to give him any shit. 

Either side of the winding road, tall pines and sentinels rise way overhead, dropping browning green needles onto the road. The late summer sun filters through the branches, giving the golden light a hazy, greenish tinge. Besides the sound of the engine, the world is silent and still, and only the slightest crisp breeze winds through the trees and blows his hair out of his face. Daryl speeds up, enjoying the feel of it against his skin. 

And suddenly, around the slanting corner, he catches sight of a skinny figure on a skinny bicycle and it wasn’t there before but now it’s too late and they’re speeding at each other and he can’t turn away fast enough and his heart jumps into his fucking throat and – 

There is a scream, and a crashing noise, and suddenly it’s behind him.

Daryl pulls to a sharp screeching stop on the asphalt, clambering off the bike and staring over at the source of the noise. In the ditch beside the forest road, a faded yellow bike lies in the dust. Tugging it up is a skinny girl with curly hair and denim shorts and a long red graze up one of her calves. 

“What the hell do you think you’re –” The girl begins, and then she looks up at him properly and a shadow crosses her face. She blinks for a second, taken aback. “ _You!_ ”

“You,” Daryl realises, heat prickling up the back of his neck. His stomach turns, and he clenches his jaw tight to hide his discomfort. Of all the dumbasses on all the bicycles in all of Georgia, it had to be _her_. What were the odds? 

“So this is the second time you’ve tried to kill me,” She says pointedly, glaring up at him as she brushes the dirt off her knees and her shirt. 

“Ain’t tryin’,” Daryl mutters. “Ain’t tryin’ hard, least.” 

“What?” The girl scowls as she tugs her bicycle up out of the dirt. It’s a weird old-fashioned bike with a basket and big handles. It looks heavy, and the girl grapples awkwardly with it in her skinny, freckled arms. 

“You got some kind of death wish or somethin’,” Daryl remarks, frowning as he watches her try and haul it out of the ditch and back onto the road. “Here –” He cuts off awkwardly, stepping down into the dirt and holding out a hand to help. 

She just glares at him, her blue eyes bright in the hazy green-gold light that drifts down through the high trees overhead. She ignores his hand, instead shoving with her narrow shoulders and hitching the bike a little up the ditch. 

“ _No_ ,” She huffs. “I just have some crazy murderer boy stalking me.” 

It’s Daryl’s turn to glare at her, as he irritably takes one of the bike handles and pushes hard. It gives easily, and together they drag it back up onto the road.  
He gives her a quick glance over, this stupid girl who keeps getting in the way of his crossbow, his motorbike, his day. She stands awkwardly, holding up her funny yellow bicycle firmly by the handles, looking straight at him with eyes that are bluer than the late summer sky. There is dirt in her hair and speckling her pale cheek, a pinkish graze up her elbow to match the red scrape down her leg. Still she just looks at him expectantly, dusty golden light pouring down all around her. 

Daryl rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “You, uh, think that thing’s gonna be alright?” 

“It’ll be fine. No thanks to you,” The girl mutters, her skinny scraped-up arms braced against the handlebars. 

“Sorry, dead girl,” Daryl replies roughly, with a shrug. “Ain’t my fault I didn’t see ya comin’.”

She looks up at him, and her blue eyes are clear and unapologetic as the Georgia sky overheard. “My name is Carol.”

Daryl glances her over, this stupid little bitch who keeps trying to do herself in, who speaks like she’s not even proper southern, who can afford to go to some fancy college and rides a stupid bicycle. Who looks at Daryl, with his beat up leather jacket and long greasy hair, his crossbow and the ancient motorbike he build in his backyard as if he’s just another everyday asshole and not a piece of dirt under her shoe. 

“Yeah,” He says awkwardly, _so?_ hanging unsaid in the air between them. 

She squints and frowns a little in the sunlight, shifting her heavy bicycle against the road. “What’s yours?”

Despite the sudden defensive spark in his stomach, Daryl finds himself answering. “Daryl.” 

“Ha.” She smirks, the most annoying little smirk. “It rhymes.” 

Daryl just shakes his head, trying not to roll his eyes and scoff at her.

“Okay.” The girl, Carol, nods. Without another word, she swings a leg over the bike and climbs back onto the seat. She has to go on her tiptoes to balance her feet against the asphalt. 

Before she can ride off, Daryl hears himself ask, “Why’d you wanna know?”

Carol just looks at him and shrugs. “So I know who to blame in the court case.”

And he thinks he catches just the briefest hint of a smile tug at her mouth before she turns away, feet on the pedals, and rides off around the curve of the forest road, golden sunlight glancing off her short, bouncing curls. 

_

After nearly killing her for the _second_ time, Daryl can’t help but keep thinking about it. He doesn't mean to, exactly. The thought just comes to his head sometimes, when he's laying awake staring at the ceiling of the trailer in the dark, picking at his hangnail. _What are the odds, right?_ Then he falls asleep and doesn't dream and wakes up feeling normal again.

It’s weird, but whatever. Days pass, and he finds ways to fill them. 

It's late afternoon, and he’s just started down the long forest road back to the trailer when the rains come. 

At first, it’s just a few spitting drops of rain, cool where they land against his face and his hands on the bike handles. But this is Georgia, and the late summer is melting into fall, and with a low rumble of thunder, the rain falls faster and harder and Daryl has to duck his head and squint just to be sure of the turning road ahead of him. 

In minutes, the rain roars loader than his bike, rushing down through the leafy canopy of branches and pounding against the asphalt. It drips down his hair and the neck of his jacket until he’s gripping the handlebar with cold fingers and gritted teeth.

About halfway down the road, Daryl spots something ahead of him that makes him frown and peer awkwardly through the rain. 

Clearly, there is a lonely figure trudging along the dirt track at the side of the road. He squints through the pouring rain, slowing down a little as he gets closer. She’s soaking wet; her clothes cling to her, her hair is ropy and dripping, and her head is bent down against the onslaught, but he recognises her quickly. He’s beginning to think he’d recognise her anywhere – _she’s suicidal dumbass doing the crazy shit_.

He drives a little closer, closing most of the distance between them before slowing right down. He waits for the sputtering, growling engine to quiet to a low purr, quiet under the rush of rain. 

“Hey! Dead girl!” Daryl shouts, voice raised loud against the pouring rain. “The hell d’you think you’re doin’?”

The girl turns around sharply, jumping at the sudden sound of his voice. She’s squinting through the rain at him, her curly hair ropy and dripping down her shoulders, soaked cardigan wrapped tightly around herself. She’s wearing sandals. Daryl can see dirt and bits of leaf stuck to her wet calves. 

“Walking home!” She shouts back, not quite loud enough. Her head is bowed down against the rain, arms folded tight. 

“You crazy?” Daryl yells, stopping the motorbike where he is. “You’re gonna catch your death out here!” 

“So?” The girl shrugs defensively. Her eyes are squinting, her brow creased. Water runs down her pale face from her hair. She adds, begrudgingly, “That’d make less work for you anyway.”

“Where’d ya live?” Daryl calls. The toes of his boots are braced against the road, cold red-knuckled hands wrapped around the handles. 

“What?” The girl shouts, over the loud rush of the rain. 

“ _Where’d ya live?_ ” Daryl repeats, louder. Water runs down his own hair, down the collar of his leather jacket, soaking into his ratty shirt.

The girl is rocking on her wet feet as she squints at him through the downpour. He can see she’s shivering. “Queens Street.” She calls. “It’s just down past the quarry.”

Daryl sighs loudly, rolls his eyes, and motions with his head. “Well, c’mon then.”

“What?” The girl frowns even more. When she shakes her head, little drops of rain fly from the ends of her hair. 

“I _said_ , come on!” Daryl repeats, revving the bike a little. “I ain’t got all day!” 

“You mean... Get on that thing with you?” She shouts, tugging her soaking cardigan tighter round herself. 

“You’d rather walk three miles in this?” Daryl shouts back. 

That does it. 

She runs over to the bike and climbs on behind him. Her skinny wet arms wrap around his waist tight as a vice, and he hears her mutter, close to his ear, “I still think you’re trying to kill me.” 

Daryl fights off a smile as he revs the engine and carries on his way down the road. The rain comes down around them, and he has to bend his head to keep it out of his eyes so he can steer straight. 

Nobody else has ever been on the bike with him before.

So he can’t help but be hyper-aware of the fact there is a pretty girl about his age pressed against him, her arms wrapped tight around him. Somehow it doesn’t feel like all it’s cracked up to be. She is cold and small and damp and it feels like someone’s tied a wet dishcloth to his back. In fact, it’s annoying. Her bony knees jab into his legs whenever he turns a corner, and her breath, heavy with cold, is close to his ear. He ignores the lump in his throat, the new tightness in his stomach, and pulls closer to where the forest road opens up towards the suburbs. 

They follow the main road up past the quarry, where the sound of the downpour pounding into the still blue waters is almost deafening. They keep close to the side of the road, although there are almost no cars in sight. 

“Where to?” Daryl calls, still having to almost shout over the rain and the engine. 

“Turn left,” Her voice is suddenly loud and clear as a bell in his ear. “Then right on the corner.” Daryl doesn’t reply. He just does as she says, rounding the corner onto a long street of neat, detached houses, like big plastic dollhouses all in a row. 

“This is it,” She says, and he draws to a stop by the kerb. 

Her wet arms untangle from around his waist and he feels her clamber awkwardly off the seat behind him. He glances over to her, squinting through the grey rain as she stands on the sidewalk in her dirty sandals and dripping wet dress, staring at him. 

“Yeah?” Daryl asks defensively, suddenly painfully self-conscious. Heat prickles and itches up the back of his neck in spite of the relentless rain. 

The girl – _Carol_ , that was her name – shrugs and shakes her head. “Nothing.” She says. “Just... Thank you.” 

“Don’t,” Daryl says awkwardly, the prickly heat spreading to his cheeks. He shrugs. “Think of it as sorry for tryin’ to kill ya.”

She stares back at him, with this funny little almost-smile on her face, and he wonders if he should leave. Then she smiles a little more and says, “Twice.”  
“Huh?”

“You tried to kill me twice.” Carol reminds him. Suddenly her voice is loud and clear, even though the rain. “You still owe me.” 

“Stop,” He rolls his eyes, but he’s fighting to keep a straight face.

Carol smiles again, this time a wider, more _beaming_ smile that seems to break through all the grey, grey rain. “Thanks a lot, dead boy.” 

And Daryl looks down at his muddy boots, balanced, braced against the grey concrete, pretending not to watch as she turns and runs down the street in the pouring rain, up a long empty driveway and fumbles with a key in the door. He turns away when he sees the door open and her slip inside, firing up the bike again and driving away, wondering what in hell he thinks he’s doing.

**Author's Note:**

> srry for any silly mistakes, i posted this v late and will do a quick edit asap


End file.
